


it wasnt about the money

by secondfiddle



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4837472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondfiddle/pseuds/secondfiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A toast." He looks over at you, wearing that smile that makes you melt to the core and forgive that asshole all over again. "To the old times, and to the new ones as well."</p>
            </blockquote>





	it wasnt about the money

**Author's Note:**

> set after the big one. in second pov, trevors view

You don't remember picking him up. You don't remember getting in the truck. You don't remember leaving the back room tonight. But somehow, you're here. Somehow, you're traveling a hundred miles down the interstate, swerving left and right and trying so hard not to spin out, and there he is, Michael De Santa, the living legend, the king of shitheads shooting out the tires of the many cop cars trailing you.

You look back for a second, and let out a loud whoop when Michael lands a bullet right between a cop's eyes. "Hell fucking yeah, Mikey! Show 'em how it's done!"

He laughs as he shoves a new clip into the gun. "I may be a good shot T, but I'm not gonna be a good shot dead. You should probably think about losing these guys."

"Riiiiiight-o, Mikey-boy!" You make a sharp left and dive into some weeds and brambles, leaping over hills and plopping back down again. A car that was trailing you gets its tires shot out, and when you look back there's brains all over the dash and you laugh again. 

Michael sighs with relief, like he's twenty-one again and he can't believe that cops wouldn't still be trailing them after a successful corner store stick-up. "I think we might of lost them."

You grin. "Yep! And while we're here, maybe we should, y'know, chillax in the most romantic spot in Sandy Shores."

He looks over at you. "Please don't tell me you're selling me to the cult."

You scoff at him. "What do you take me for, an animal or something? No sir, we're going somewhere real nice, just for you, Mikey. Free of freaky cults."

"All right, T. Whatever you say."

You drive in 'silence' (or maybe the radio has finally destroyed your eardrums), and you finally park near the edge of the cliffs, overlooking all of Sandy Shores, Los Santos a sad sprinkle of bright lights in the distance. 

"Look T, I know you wanted to kill me but this is kinda a long drive to-"

"Why do you always assume I'm trying to kill you?"

"Habit, I suppose."

"If I wanted to kill you, I'd be a little more creative. There's beer in the back, hopefully it hasn't been shot up."

Michael finally puts two and two together and crawls to the back of the truck, grabbing two brown bottles and tossing one to you. You catch it, climbing back into the bed of the truck. You make a quip about how lucky the two of you were that Michael wasn't making the truck teeter off into the rocks below, and he gives you a jab in the arm. You laugh like a hyena, ripping off the bottle cap with your teeth and spitting it off into the cliffs. He works his off with his hands and tosses it aside as well before raising his beer bottle into the air.

"A toast." He looks over at you, wearing that smile that makes you melt to the core and forgive that asshole all over again. "To the old times, and to the new ones as well."

You smirk and clink your bottle with his before taking a gulp. "You always were a cheesy fuck."

The two of you spend a good half hour (or was it an hour? you weren't sure, time always seemed to slow down and become an afterthought around him) drinking beer after beer, chatting it up about the Big One, how all of your fucked up criminal dreams have come true, how you're going to spend (or not, in Michael's case, something about rainy days that you barely listened to) all the money. Stevie Fucking Haines and his brains splattering all over the Del Perro Pier Ferris Wheel, Devin Goddamn Weston and his charred remains in the ocean. Stretch and his posse gone, the Chinese, most (if not all) of your problems gone in a haze of bullets, Franklin and his great potential, and then It comes up.

"You scared me back there man, in the warehouse?" Michael turns to you, smiling weakly. "When you didn't talk over the radio? Man, for a second back there, I thought- I thought-" He's stumbling over his words, Michael De Townley or something, the silver tongued god, was struggling to get a sentence out. "I really thought you were gone there, you know? I- I- really thought they got ya."

You laugh softly. "I don't talk all the time, Mikey. Guess it was the wrong time to stop talking, huh?"

"You're damn fucking right it was." He takes a drink. "I- I- I wouldn't have been able to handle it, ya know? I never got-" He sighs. "I never got to say I was sorry."

You're quiet for a bit, taking drink after drink out of your bottle, staring off into the lights far off into the distance. You wonder if anyone's looking for him back home, worrying about him. "And I never would've been able to say I forgave you."

He's silent, then- "You can have my money, you know."

You blink once, twice. "What?"

"I'm serious, T. I don't think just saying I'm sorry is enough. I'll give you all of it, all twenty million. You- You...deserve it. After all the shit I've put you through."

You hum thoughtfully. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'll have to pass up on that offer."

He cocks his head in confusion. "But I thought-"

"I don't need any more money, especially yours, Michael." You sigh and take another sip of your bottle. "'Sides, it wasn't ever about the money, anyways."

Just from the look Michael gives you, you realize you might've said a bit too much. He takes a long drink, coughs once, and finally speaks. "What was it about, then?"

"The thrill I guess. Gives a nice high, close second to good 'ol crystal." 

"That's it?"

You're supposed to be the brave one, someone who tells it how it fucking is and doesn't hold back. For some reason, you can't even look him in the eye. "The people too. Brad, even though he was a bit of a pain in the ass. Lester, that smug smartass son of a bitch." You swallow down the rest of your beer, praying to the God you don't believe in and the one you curse everyday that you can blame this on the beer that's scattered around the truck. "You."

You glance over at him. He won't look you in the eye either. He finally downs the rest of his beer and tosses the bottle out, and it almost looks like he's aiming for the city, hoping the bottle cracks the buildings in the distance. He finally looks at you, and he looks confused and upset and sad all at once. "Why don't you hate me?"

It's your turn to be bewildered. "What?"

"After all that shit. All the shit I've done to you, to her, to everyone." He slides up a bit to face you completely. "Why don't you hate me?"

You shrug a bit. "I don't think I have it in me to hate you."

He's reaching back to grab another beer, when he realizes you both drank the entire six-pack you brought. He sighs in defeat. "I- I don't-" He licks his already wet lips, and just the action alone makes you want to fling yourself over the cliff to end this half dream, half nightmare. "I sorta just-" 

He sighs again, and you wish you had more beer, crystal, coke, heroin, even a fucking blunt to blame your actions on. You lean in, and your lips ghost over his, and you remember that one story in the Bible beside you in the motel, when you thumbed through it with shaky hands after you mixed migraine pills and vodka and you really thought you were going to die, hoping that maybe if you read the damn thing, that's an apology to God that he could accept. Something about forbidden fruit that you couldn't have, and these two assholes had it anyways. 

Except now you're the asshole and he's the piece of fruit. Or maybe it's the other way around.

He finally connects, and it's not the angry clicking of teeth that it usually was ten or fifteen some years ago. It's gentle, nice and soft, so you can taste beer and cigarettes and the special taste that only Michael could possibly possess. You notice that for once, his eyes are closed, instead of staring straight into you like he usually did, like he didn't trust you. You glance at the skyline, then him, then your eyes close too. The sun starts to raise over the skyline, and the two of you are basked in the glow of the warm sun. A kiss that seemed straight out of the ending of a Vinewood classic that Michael loved, where the ripped hero kisses the damsel in their convertible as they drive into the sunset. And you're no damsel, and he's no hero either, but for once you don't say anything, and you enjoy the thing that inevitably ends when he pulls back for a breath, and stares at you. "I hope that was a good apology."

You smile. "Any apology is good enough for me, M."

You drive him home, and the car is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. You're rocking back and forth in your seat and your fingers are tapping against the wheel and you park in his driveway and everything comes crashing down and you remember he's married and you can't ever have him ever again, he's the one that slipped through your fingers and the only one who made you cry other than your mother, why can't you hate him, why can't you squeeze the breath out of his throat like everyone else-

He kisses you again, first on the cheek, then on the lips, and that makes everything worse. "I'll see you around, okay?"

You smile and nod. "See ya real soon, buddy."

Once he's inside, you drive back to the club, head straight back into your room and collapse straight on the couch. It's daytime, sure, but after that drive it felt like you've been up for days (you have been up for days actually, but you don't want to admit that all that much) It's one of the first times in a while since you've slept peacefully, without twisting and turning about the countless horrors you've witnessed and committed. You fall asleep and dream of skylines sprinkled with lights and stars, beer breath and wet lips.  
(Are they dreams or nightmares?)

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if it sucked really bad lmao it was my first work  
> im always open for criticism


End file.
